


Symmetry

by PresquePommes



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresquePommes/pseuds/PresquePommes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos was sent to Night Vale for one very specific reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symmetry

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random shitty drabble.

It was one of those jobs they offered to him like he had an option to refuse it, and he knew it was a weird one by the way they’d brought it up.

First, his section leader’s superior had called to him using his last name, which was standard. He and Doctor Rundholt had rarely spoken, and had never been overly friendly. That Rundholt had come to the desk he was working at instead of calling him into his office was not standard. He gave uneasy consideration to the possibility he’d just been passing by, and was about to engage in some uninvited micromanagement.

But then he’d paused, smiled in a way that vaguely reminded Carlos of his least favourite uncle, and placed a companionable hand on his shoulder. This also, coincidentally, reminded Carlos of his least favourite uncle.

“Carlos, you’re good with kids, right?”

He was, but he didn’t think he liked where this was going.

“Why do you ask?” he responded cautiously, and Rundholt squeezed his shoulder in a way that was clearly meant to be reassuring, but came across as oddly covetous, combined as it was with his strangely intent eyes and insincere smile.

“Why do you think kids like you, Carlos? Humour me.”

Carlos lifted his hands from his keyboard- he’d been in the middle of drafting an up-to-date report about his section’s findings on the Midwestern transdimensional fault line, but it was starting to look like he was going to have to put that on hold- and took in a deep breath. It tasted like recycled air and resignation. “Um, I come from a large family and have a lot of experience with children. I’m patient and I don’t talk down to them. My sister’s eldest daughter wants to be a scientist, and my nephews think labcoats are cool because some superheroes are scientists when they’re not, uh, being superheroes, and I guess they think that means I’m one, um, secretly,” he faltered, searching Rundholt’s unchanged expression for clues.

“And?” Rundholt prompted encouragingly.

“And?” he echoed, feeling lost.

Rundholt’s smile stiffened and then spread. Carlos found it a little creepy.

“And you’re _symmetrical_ ,” he said warmly, squeezing Carlos’ shoulder again, “Kids love symmetrical faces, and I must say, you’ve been blessed with one of the most symmetrical faces this scientist has ever seen.”

Carlos stared at him. “I beg your pardon?” The world felt broken and a little surreal. This conversation was beginning to feel like it was treading stranger waters than the anomalies he’d been reporting on. “What is this about, Doctor Rundholt?”

 Rundholt lifted his hand from Carlos’ shoulder and leaned against his desk.

“What do you know about Night Vale?”

_(Symmetry)_

Before going _to_ Night Vale, Carlos had known very little about it.

He knew of it, of course, and had heard stories that his scientific instinct had found both ludicrous and strangely intriguing. He’d even known two of the researchers who had gone into Night Vale posing as tourists who’d never returned, but he still wasn’t convinced that Stephen and Caroline hadn’t just eloped.

But then, he had applied to be part of the research team in Desert Bluffs, not Night Vale. He didn’t know what things were like in Night Vale.

It was Desert Bluffs that he was familiar with, and it was the Desert Bluffs on-site research team he’d been denied access to, on account of him “lacking the experience and maturity the project requires,” which they all knew was a politer way of saying that he was too unorthodox in his methods to be considered a viable member of a cohesive group.

Night Vale he had not even considered.

The first concrete thing he learned about it was that, like Desert Bluffs, Night Vale had a radio station, and that its host was a person with considerable presence within his community.

Kevin R. Free, the voice of Desert Bluffs, had always sounded like a reasonable person, if exhaustingly- and somewhat unnervingly- cheerful, according to the former on-site researchers who had interviewed him over the telephone. He was somewhat difficult to meet in person, Carlos had heard.

Cecil Baldwin, he learned, was his equivalent, the voice of Night Vale.

When Rundholt had refused to allow him access to records of Cecil Baldwin’s radio segments and informed him that there were no interviews available, Carlos had had his suspicions.

“He’s a bit of a kid,” Rundholt had told him dismissively. “Like Kevin, he’s got a lot of sway in his town, and about six months ago we noticed a trend in his responses to the researchers we sent in wearing plainclothes- he tends to overreact to anything he thinks is rude, and the townsfolk get a bit antsy, even hostile when he does, but he seems to be a lot more forgiving towards people with some kind of good looks- symmetrical faces, clean features and the like, you know, and you’re pretty good at talking your way out of stepping too hard on anybody’s toes, on top of that. So here’s the thing-”

The _thing_ turned out to be that Rundholt wanted him to pose as the team’s leader while Catalina- the woman who was really in charge of the project- and the other on-site researchers flew under the radar.

“Chances are, Cecil will take a liking to you once he gets a good look at you- give it a week or so- and all you’ll have to do is smile pretty and humour him once in a while when you’re not in the lab,” Rundholt had assured him. “And if he likes you, then that should apply to everybody he thinks you’ve got working under you, too, just as long as nobody does anything stupid and attracts attention to themself.”

Rundholt had paused, still lingering by the desk.

“You should maybe get a haircut first, though.”

He hadn’t.

And it hadn’t taken a week. Cecil had noticed him instantly.

_“A new man came into town today. Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat? He says he is a scientist.”_

As it had turned out, Cecil had, in fact, liked him.

_“The new scientist we now know is named Carlos called a town meeting. He has a square jaw and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is perfect, and we all hate and despair and love that perfect hair in equal measure.”_

Rundholt’s dubiously moral and somewhat degrading plan had worked almost _too_ well.

_“He grinned, and everything about him was perfect, and I fell in love instantly.”_

He had no idea where Cecil was that he had seen him only hours after he’d first arrived, and he hadn’t been able to place which of those townsfolk was the man in question at the meeting, but the man who was sitting in the broadcasting booth was surprisingly normal looking, even if he stared too much and blinked too little.

He had been both disappointed and relieved.

A part of him had anticipated something terrible, something monstrous and exciting, but Cecil had turned out to be an uncommonly smooth-voiced man of average stature and unclear age.

His questionable wardrobe choices nearly made up for it, though. He’d been expecting a suit, maybe, or sweatpants, given that nobody could see him, anyway. Carlos wasn’t sure that wearing white and yellow houndstooth from head to toe had ever been in vogue.

Cecil’s unselfconscious carriage meant that he’d almost risked thinking it was charming, in a terrible way. Some part of his brain had already cemented it as integral to the peculiar person that was the voice of Night Vale.

The second time they spoke, Cecil was not in his booth, and he had stuttered and misunderstood Carlos’ questions.

Carlos found it a little bit endearing.

His admiration was flattering, after all, even if he never was going to call him for personal reasons.


End file.
